Hurt
by Out-0fThe-Blue
Summary: An angsty Lizzington short story. Takes place sometimes during season 2.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer :**_

 _A very short 4 chapters story_ _totally unbeta'd. English is not my mother tongue, so feel free to make any comments if it's a pain to read due to mistakes :)_

 _I don't own Reddington, though it's on my to do list._

 _~~~ Music mood - The Truth by Handsome Boy Modeling School~~~_

It had all started with an argument, again. He was used to it but it had always turned his stomach upside down. This time it was about his way of life, just that. He had invited her to a party with important guests. Well, that's true, some of them were international criminals. But fascinating persons. Sharing a glass with such important figures was always a tremendous opportunity.

The fact that Madeline Pratt was hosting the festivities may have sealed her decision.

"You're mad", Liz ended the discussion, heading to the door.

"I'm mad. I used to be a monster, now I'm mad. I take it as an improvement," Red teased.

"You're not a monster," she said slowly turning back to him. "I'm sorry. Truly. I should never have said that … But yes, you're crazy. Going to such a party when there's a price on your head. And hosted by this … I mean, it always ends up badly with her!"

"Oh dear … Madeline is an amazing person. Life would be boring without people like her," he paused and try to soften his voice. "But this time it's just a party with selected people, it's _totally_ safe. You should come!" He was desperately trying to convince her though he knew it was pointless. He had crossed a line.

"Don't even try to insist! I won't come to your fancy gala evening, playing the stupid doll in the middle of your criminal jet set friends."

"The what?" It never came to his mind that she would think he was using her in such a way. "Lizzie! It's not at all the reason why I invited you … I just wanted to share that evening with you. You may enjoy meeting some of the guests … I'm sorry you understood it that way, I didn't want to hurt you."

"Anyway, I can't come. I'm attending a seminar with Ressler this same weekend."

"Those absolutely boring meetings where they show you amusing slides about how life should be in a perfect world?"

"Enough with your sarcasms please! It's in Paris, and I want to visit the place. I've never been there."

"Paris! Why haven't you told me?!"

"Should I ask for your permission any time I step out of the Post Office?"

"I didn't mean to … But It's Paris! We can take my jet, I'll show you the nicest places …", he was excited about the idea of travelling to the French capital with Lizzie.

"No luxury jet and private scotch bar. I'm going with Ressler, he booked us seats on Air France. That will better suit _my_ way of life."

"Okay, understood. But may I … can we at least meet there? You cannot go to Paris and miss a dinner in one of their finest restaurant. Let me invite you to the Ambroisie at La Place des Vosges. It's an amazing restaurant in a unique place."

"You and me? I don't think it's a good idea …"

"Why not, Lizzie?"

"What about Ressler?" she tried to elude the question.

"I'll book him a table at Le Moulin Rouge, VIP seat with all the extras. I know the patron, he'll take care of him. He will never forget his trip to Paris."

She smiled. She tried to hide it but she smiled.

"Agreed. One diner," she finally said. But the look on her face clearly showed that she was doing him a favor. "We'll meet there in a couple of days."

And she left.

 _To be continued ..._


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer :**_ _Still unbeta'd. Things are getting darker... Hope you won't hate me for that chapter! I just wanted to try that for once._

 _~~~ Music mood - Hurt by Jonny Cash ~~~_

Reddington's jet arrived in Paris a couple of hours after Liz's plane took off from New York. He loved Paris, its little parks, the old buildings, walking along the Seine. Its finest cooks and restaurants. He always stayed at the same hotel, rather small and quiet, in the lovely Butte des Cailles neighborhood.

After he took his jacket and vest off, he poured himself a large glass of Bordeaux red wine while Dembe headed for a nap on the couch. The rough and fruity liquid, a powerful mix of earth and blackberries taste, was a true delight. As usual, one of the first things he did when he stepped in a hotel suite was to switch the TV on, to get the latest news with the sound of the local language. French was like music to his ears, almost as romantic as Italian.

He took a step back when the images came on the screen.

 _"…_ _le vol New York – Paris …"_

The wine that was slipping along his throat suddenly felt unbearably bitter. He choked as he tried to get some air. No more oxygen was reaching his lungs; it was like someone had put a plastic bag on his head.

 _"…_ _au large des Açores …"_

He hit the bed as he made another step back, trying to escape the unbearable images that were scrolling on the screen; and felt seated at the edge of the bed, wine spilled all over his costume.

 _"…_ _les secours sont en route …"_

Help is on the way. But the way of what? He knew damn well that no one ever survived such a crash.

He closed his eyes.

She was there. Arguing, then smiling.

That stupid idea of him to invite her to Madeline's party. He knew she wouldn't accept. He tried, failed. But never thought it would upset her.

She was just worried about him, she was protecting him. She cared so much, too much. This was not what he had expected.

"Agreed."

Her smile.

She had agreed for a dinner. But not for the jet. He had not insisted. He never did with her … For once, he should have. Begging her to join him on his plane. Invite Ressler as well, this may have convinced her. For God's sake … He wanted her for himself, just one time … selfish thought.

Angry about himself, rage was flowing through his veins.

He stood up and reached for a bottle of whisky, pouring himself a full glass of alcohol that he drunk right away, burning his throat.

He had killed her.

Holding his glass, he clenched his fists. The broken pieces of thin glass slowly sank into his palm as he tightened his grip. The pain was rising up his arm and he could feel his own blood running down his hand, warm, sticky. He was seeking for relief by hurting himself. Or was it punishment? But no physical pain would ever surpass his grief.

He had spent half of his life with one main goal in head: protecting her. He had planned everything, every scenario up to his own death. Except that one. Because his own life would have lost all of its interest if she was gone. He had not even imagined her dead while he would still be alive.

Dembe's gun was at an arm length. He grabbed it with his healthy hand and sat on the bed. Shooting himself was not a solution. It was just an escape, for him, right now. The only one he could imagine at the moment.

His eyes were dry and burning. Under shock and unable to weep, he laid on the bed staring at the ceiling, letting the pain and alcohol flowing through his veins, hitting his mind with all the violence he was desperately seeking for. Breathing became an unbearable effort. When he finally closed his eyes, all that he could see was flashes of a crash he had witnessed once in Western Africa. The rush to find survivors. The fire. The bodies. That dreadful smell of burned flesh that stick in your nose for days.

She was there, standing in the middle of the flames.

 _To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disc:** it was supposed to be a very short story but writing a desperate Red is somehow endearing... so it'll be slightly longer!_

 _~~~ Music mood - Roads by Portishead ~~~_

"Lizzie!"

Dembe jumped off the couch when he heard the shout.

The sight of Reddington freaked him out: lying on the bed, his clothes covered by a mix of blood and red wine, holding a gun. His gun.

"Raymond, what's the hell?!"

He reached for the gun and shook Reddington by the shoulders to wake him up.

It was like shaking a rag doll. He opened his eyes but had no other reaction.

"Raymond! Can you hear me?"

He was carefully holding him by the nape of his neck, trying to make eye contact. Reddington's empty gaze was scary; his eyes were glassy and the pain was drawn on his face. Dembe realized he needed help and comfort but was still not understanding the situation.

There was no doubt that the ache was intense but Reddington hardly moved when Dembe took his hand and meticulously removed the biggest pieces of glass to clean the wound. It was looking ugly and still bleeding a lot.

He tore a piece of the bed sheet to put around his hand. "Why, Raymond? Why the hell did you do that?"

When the TV screen finally caught his attention, a blurry amateur video was showing a ball of fire falling into the sea. The journalist was saying the same information over and over, "There's no survivor".

"She's dead, Dembe," Reddington's voice was barely more than a whisper. He painfully raised a hand and pointed to the TV screen. "She's dead …"

"She's dead because of me," Reddington kept repeating.

"Not because of you, Raymond … this is just … fatality. You cannot blame yourself for that."

Dembe quickly pressed his hand on Reddington's when he noticed he had reached for the gun again. The pressure triggered a shot that slightly burnt Dembe's fingers skin and ended in the wall. Reddington was hopelessly trying to escape his grip but was not strong enough to fight his bodyguard who pushed him back against the bed.

"Do you really think killing yourself is going to solve anything?"

"There's nothing left to be solved …"

"Even without her there's still a lot that you can achieve in that war."

"I destroyed her life, now she's dead. I'm a constant danger for everyone around me. Who's going to be next?" Still pushing against Dembe's arm and trying to stand up, he hold his gaze, "You?"

Dembe was struggling with his emotions. The shock of Elizabeth's death and the sight of his best friend trying to destruct himself was too much for him to think straight and give wise advices. He removed the bullets from the gun and threw it through the room, out of reach.

His was desperately trying to find a way to change Reddington's mind. At least for a moment.

After pouring a glass of whisky, he helped him to sit and hold the scotch to his mouth. "Drink."

Getting him drunk will eventually makes him sleep. Even though it may just be a distraction to delay the inevitable.

Reddington tossed down a gulp of alcohol and let himself felt back on the mattress.

"You will find a way through this. I know you can do it. Remember when you left your family."

"I still had hope. Now it's all gone."

The taste of alcohol in his mouth made him cough. He slowly turned himself on his side and moaned when his injured hand touched the bed sheet. After staring at Dembe for a few seconds, he huddled himself, not saying a word.

Dembe slightly squeezed his shoulder with his strong hand. He wanted to makes him feel better but had no idea how. The light sobs he could hear were at least a sign that he had stopped fighting. For now.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disc :**_ _It needed an end. Thanks for your nice comments! I hope you enjoyed the ride in Red's mind. Don't hesitate to let me know what you think about the whole story._

ooooooooOOOoooooooo

The ring made them both startle.

Dembe picked up the phone and shivered when he saw the name on the screen.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Liz. Is Red around?"

"But how come you …?"

"What's wrong Dembe? Can I talk to Red? He won't like it but I'll have to cancel the dinner."

"He's under shock and can barely talk; I'm not sure he …"

"Under shock? It's just a dinner, come on!"

"I let you talk to him …"

"Elizabeth is asking for you," he handled the phone to Reddington who was staring at him, not believing a word of what had just been said.

"Take the phone, please. I don't know what's going on."

"Lizzie, is that you?" Red asked after a short silence.

"Of course it's me! What's wrong with you guys?"

"I'm so glad to hear your voice …" he almost whispered.

"Are you ok, Red?"

"I've never been so happy," his voice was trembling.

"You may change your mind soon … I won't be able to make it, for the dinner."

"It's not important."

"I know you were so excited to show me Paris but …"

"It's not important, Lizzie. I'm just happy you're alive."

"Alive? For sure I'm alive. But how do you know we had an accident?"

"It's on the news, on every channels."

"On the news?! Ressler just broke his ankle. He hurt himself quite badly, but not badly enough to break the news!"

"Lizzie … where are you?"

"I'm uh… I'm at the hospital, in DC. We didn't even make it to New York airport. I should have called you earlier but it took us a while to reach the hospital and …"

"DC? Have you watched the TV lately?"

"Not for a second, why?"

"Your plane. It crashed."

A silence answered his last words.

She hesitated, "It seems Ressler saved our lives by slipping on a banana peel … " she didn't know if it were adrenaline or fear that made her tell such a stupid joke. But at this moment, it just felt right to her to joke rather than being dramatic.

Reddington suddenly laughed with a warm and endearing voice that surprised Dembe, and added "Can you pass Donald a message for me? Tell him I love him."

His hazy brain still fighting alcohol effects, he dared. "We're heading back to DC, and I'll pick you up there. My invitation is still valid."


End file.
